Silent flowing stream
kissed by gentle morning light
lush green field beside

I don't rage
against the dying
of the light
instead
I walk gently
into that good night

for
life I've lived
in both wrong
and right-
thousands of scenes
have I felt
and passed
before my sight

rage is a sign
of non-acceptance
a sense of loss
and plight

I've loved
I've suffered
I've sung
I've danced
I've risen
I've fallen
I've wept
I've sighed

but still
I'm unbroken
though
the harshest
life has spoken
in many a blight

so tender
so comforting
so soothing
is tonight

life
is the alternation
of the dark
and the light
the mounting on
and stepping aside

I've no rage
nor regret
I've no fright
my footsteps
are firm and sure
as I alone walk
into the this
long, good night.

There's no fear of others
if one fears not of their own self
it's the lack of faith of the person
that has created this dilemma

You crafted a shrine for me,

adorned me with wings,

elevated and sacred, untouched by your secrets.

Your last chance at redemption,

a sanctuary where you hid from yourself.

Your perfect lie—

an illusion of salvation.

Once shattered, your adoration

twisted into disdain.

The hand that shaped my wings,

became the force that broke them.

And now, you watch me fall

from the heights you once placed me upon.


Yet I release you, I forgive you,

Love, a quiet thread that ties us still,

A spark woven into the fabric of time,

Never truly gone, but transformed,

gently fading

into the glow of what we were.

I return sometimes to those moments,

not with longing, but with reverence—

like that stolen kiss—

unexpected, breathless,

the words "I love you" spilling from me,

uncontainable, truthful,

your arms, holding me,

an electric hum between us.



This is how I'll hold us—

in the warmth of what we were,

not in the sorrow that followed.

When you remember me,

let it be the quiet depth of my love that remains,

the warmth of my hand resting softly on your

cheek,

the steady, unwavering gaze that held you,

unchanged by time.

Let that be what stays with you—

not the deafening silence that followed,

not the weight of what we lost,

but the light that we held, even just for a moment,

so close to perfect but fragile.

Not perfect enough.